The Colors In It Remind Me Of You
by blacksouledbutterfly
Summary: Eames accompanies Ariadne to get her first tattoo.


She had taken months to decide what she wanted. It had taken Eames nearly a year to convince her to go through with this. For nearly a whole year he poked and prodded and would smile at her, smirking a bit when she would say 'no' and try to drop the subject. But he kept on bringing it back up, kept trying to tell her that it wasn't as bad as she thought it would be. But she was insistent that tattooing wasn't her thing; she was insistent that she didn't want to risk the pain despite how many times he assured her that the pain wasn't that bad.

"Ariadne," he would soothe. "How painful could it possibly be? People wouldn't get second, third, _tenth_ tattoos if it was _really_ painful."

"They would if they're masochistic."

"Do you think me masochistic, darling?"

"You really don't want me to answer that question."

And Eames would laugh at her and drop it for the time being but it would be brought right back up within a day, a week. It all depended on their schedules; it all depended on her mood because he knew better than to push the subject when she was upset or mad or whatever the case may be.

But after a year of poking and prodding he was finally able to convince her to agree to go get a tattoo. She had seemed to get fed up with him bugging her about it and so she told him that she would get one but she had to take the time to decide what she wanted. And so after that she spent _months_ looking at designs online to get an idea. It was the longest part of the whole process, trying to choose what would be the best design to have etched into her skin. Because she didn't want to get something she would regret later.

And while she was picking the design that she wanted he reminded her that not everyone is as accepting of tattoos in the workplace as Cobb. Because Cobb doesn't give a shit about whether or not you have one tattoo or a dozen of them. For him they're just an unimportant detail. The _only_ thing he ever tried to make sure happens is that you either keep it covered or make it vanish while they're in the dream world. Because a detail like that might be remembered by the mark.

So now, six months later, she has finally chosen what she wants and Eames is sitting next to her in the back room of the tattoo parlor. Her foot is tapping anxiously as she sits in the chair, waiting for the artist to come back and actually give her the tattoo. Once she had chosen what she wanted she had told him and he had said it would be simple, easy. He told her how much it was going to be and Eames had told her he would pay for it- it was her idea, after all. And then the artist had gone to make the stencil needed to put the design on her skin, a guideline for him to follow.

"You look almost ready to take off running," the forger teases her as he leans back in his seat, hands folded in his lap, watching her with a barely contained amused smile.

"I'm nervous," she admits easily. "It isn't like I've ever done this before."

"Oh, I'm well aware."

"It makes perfect sense for me to be nervous."

"Oh, come on, darling," Eames soothes, reaching up and running his hand over her hair to try to soothe her, tangling in the dark strands. "Would I _really_ have you do something that would hurt you?"

"Again, do you really want me to answer that?"

"Now I feel insulted," Eames replies without any real conviction though he does his best to look hurt by the implicating, even going so far as to put his hand over his heart as though he had been mortally wounded, his eyes widening dramatically. "Ariadne, you should know me well enough by now to know that I would never _intentionally_ put you in harm's way. Any time you get hurt around me it's accidental. I wouldn't put you in harm's way on purpose."

She knows that she can't deny that. Anytime that she's ever been hurt when she was around him wasn't really his fault. Or, well, it was since he got her into it but he hadn't gotten her hurt on purpose, hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't _known_ he was going to be bringing her into a dangerous situation.

"Don't you worry so much, darling," he tells her, reaching down and taking her tiny little wrist in his hand, squeezing down on it. "Things won't be as bad as you've convinced yourself it will be. It's just a scratch, luv. That's all. Just a nice long, deep scratch. It'll throb a bit afterwards but it won't be too bad. I can promise you that."

Ariadne gives him a dubious look but she doesn't argue with him about it, she doesn't even say a word as a matter-of-fact. All she does is sit there until the artist comes back to give her the tattoo. She watches him move across the floor with his long-sleeved dark shirt rolled up to the elbows, his forearms entirely covered in all sorts of colorful tattoos that she can't quite make out entirely. She watches him finish setting up to tattoo her, watches him with the stencil of the design she had picked out- a marigold for her wrist.

Eames just smiles at he watches the whole thing, watches the artist shave her wrist, set up the stencil and transfer the design onto the skin. and then, while the artist turns around to set up the gun, the little pots of ink already set up to be used, he reaches out and runs one finger down her palm, trying to calm her, soothe her. It wasn't much but its all that he can come up with at the moment.

He sits back in his seat, moves it to the other side of the chair she's in and takes that hand in his, squeezing down a bit and then lifts it up, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Now, don't you worry, darling. Everything will be just fine. If you need to you can just go ahead and squeeze on my hand. Okay?"

"Sure." She doesn't openly admit how nervous she is; he doesn't need her to admit to anything. The look on her face, the nervousness in her eyes, the way she squeezes his hand speaks volumes, tells him exactly what he needs to know. And so he just smiles at her and squeezes down on her hand again. And then, when the artist starts up the needle and she jumps, he squeezes down on her hand again, lifts it up and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

He holds her hand the entire time. 

* * *

><p>A month after the trip to the tattoo parlor and her tattoo is completely healed. Its gotten over being itchy as it healed and it had scabbed over and the scab peeled off and now it sits on her wrist, vibrant colors etched permanently into her skin, the vibrant orange and yellow; the shaded petals. Sometimes when she looks at it she feels like it's a real marigold resting against her skin, like if she touches it then it'll just start to fall apart in her hands, petals fluttering to the floor. She knows, of course, that's ridiculous but she feels that way sometimes.<p>

Of course, she doesn't have to worry about making the marigold fall apart in her hand. She rarely ever touches it. But Eames, for some unknown reason, can't seem to stop himself from doing so. Every time they're sitting on the couch and she's leaning against him he turns her hand so her palm is facing the ceiling and rests his fingers against her wrist before he pets at the petals, the touch feather light, a slow stroking motion.

At first when he started to do that it would frustrate her a bit. It hadn't been completely healed when he first started to do that, after all, and she was worried that he'd end up pulling part of the scab off. And if part of the scab got pulled off it would just ruin the tattoo and she'd have to get it fixed. And while she has to admit that the actually tattooing wasn't as bad as she thought it would be but she hasn't been looking forward to the idea of having to get it fixed up.

At first every single time he would run his fingers over her partly healed tattoo she would heave a heavy sigh and turn her head slightly to look at him, both of her eyebrows quirked to let him know that she wasn't too happy with his doing that. But all he would do is smile and press a kiss to her temple. And he never stopped brushing his fingers over her tattoo, like he couldn't have stopped petting it if his life depended on it.

But over time she got used to him doing that. And now when he does it that doesn't even bother her. Sometimes it even thrills her, sends this shudder throughout her body, makes goose bumps rise up along her arms. It makes her snuggle back against him like maybe she can push herself into his body; like maybe she can become part of him and never separate from him.

Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly cheeky he'll lift up her hand to his mouth now that its all healed up and his tongue will slip past her lips and brush over the tattoo, tracing the design like maybe he's trying to paint a new layer onto it, make it even more bright, more vibrant, bring it to the top of her skin rather than let it sit _beneath_ the skin.

And more often than not that would end up turning into something less than innocent. In truth, more often than not, when he would run his tongue over the sensitive skin of the tattoo on her wrist it would make tension build below her navel and she's start to squirm. And almost every single time that happened they would end up in bed together, her lying beneath him moaning out his name.

And that's exactly what happens this particular time, a little over a month after getting the tattoo. He runs his tongue over the tattoo on her wrist and she tries to ignore him at first, tries to pretend that he doesn't get to her when he does that but they both know better- she's never been good at hiding how much it gets to her when he does something like that. And predictably after that it didn't take long for them to be lying naked and sweating in her bed, her nails digging into his back, his body moving over hers, his breath warm on her neck.

They never say that they love each other.

They never ask each other to say it.

And it isn't until much later when their heartbeats have returned to their normal rhythm and their breathing as slowed down quite a bit and the sweat has dried on their bodies that Eames climbs off of the bed to head into the bathroom and splash some water on his face. Ariadne rolls over onto her side, watching him in the pale light of the bathroom, elbow resting against the bed, her chin in the heel of her hand.

Her eyes jump across his back, taking in every inch of flesh and then her eyebrows furrow and she sits up a bit, sheet falling down to rest in her lap. "Eames? What is that?"

"What's what, luv?" the forger asks her, turning to face her and running a hand through his mussed up hair.

"There. On your back."

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, darling."

Ariadne sighs a bit and climbs out from under the sheets, crawling across the bed until she's behind him and she can reach up and brush her fingers over the spot she's talking about. "This? What is it?"

Eames glances at her over his shoulder, laughing as he watches her. "Isn't it obvious, luv?"

The architect roles her eyes and looks back at his back, pushing gently on his shoulder so she can get a better look at the thing on his shoulder. Before she had to squint to see it but now, up close, she can see exactly what it is. And she just lifts her hand up and runs her fingers across the tattoo on his back, her fingers caressing the orange and yellow petals.

"You got a new tattoo."

"Indeed I did."

"You got _my_ tattoo."

"Now, Ariadne, that isn't really true, is it? It isn't exclusively _your_ design. And since this happens to be on my skin I would call it _my_ tattoo."

"You know what I mean," she gripes, jutting her bottom lip out in a pout even if he can't see it right now.

"Yes, I do," he concedes, nodding his head a little bit. "And yes, I got a tattoo that matches yours."

"Isn't a marigold a little feminine for you?"

"Since when have I been overly concerned with coming across as _masculine_?"

"Fair point," she concedes, her fingers still petting over the petals much like he did with _her_ tattoo, not even realizing she's doing the very same thing he had done that annoyed her. "Why'd you get a tattoo that matches mine?"

"Oh, that's simple, darling." Turning around he takes her hand in his and turns her hand so he can see her wrist, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to the flower there. "Quite a simple question indeed." Releasing her wrist he cups her cheek with one hand, leaning down and presses a kiss to her mouth. "I got a marigold tattooed on my back, darling Ariadne, because it reminds me of you."

Stepping back from her he smiles and continues on his way towards the bathroom, thinking she looks absolutely bloody adorable when she blushes.


End file.
